Lullaby for the Living
by misscam
Summary: “I’ve killed. I’m a killer, a murderer, death on two legs. Somewhere out there, in the night, lies a dead body thanks to me.” Hints of GS through the eyes of a killer.


Lullaby for the Living  
By Camilla Sandman  
  
Disclaimer: Alas, alas, not mine. CSI is CBS's, and I don't have enough money to buy them. Sniffle.  
  
Spoilers: Not really.  
  
*****  
  
I've killed. I'm a killer, a murderer, death on two legs. Somewhere out there, in the night, lies a dead body thanks to me. I've killed.  
  
The night is quiet, aside from the intense pounding of my own heart. I stare at the ceiling as if it holds answers. The bed sheets are clammy, and I have discarded them into a heap. I can't sleep anyway.  
  
I've killed.  
  
I meant to kill, yes. I had planned it hurriedly, how to lie, how to remove the clues, what I would say and do. Everything. Everything but the sight of the blood.   
  
She died silently. Strange. I had expected her to scream when the bullets slammed into her. It must have hurt. Yet, she was silent. Deadly silent.  
  
I wonder who will find her body. Will it be found tonight already? Will a night guard stop by her office and see her light still on and she missing? Will they see her car? Are the police already there, blue light flickering over her body and the reeking red blood?  
  
It doesn't matter. They can't touch me. No evidence.  
  
But still, there is cold fear in the pit of my stomach. Or is it guilt? I'm not sure, I have nothing to compare it with.   
  
I hummed to her as she died, a little lullaby. The shots didn't kill her instantly. She just crumbled to the ground and bled to death. The light in her eyes began to fade, and I hummed to her.   
  
Even now, I'm not sure why. I loved her. I couldn't let her go.   
  
Sunlight has begun to creep in through the window. It is morning. A new day. A new future.   
  
There is no point trying to pretend to sleep anymore, so I get up and wander into the kitchen. The tiles are cold against my naked feet. The kitchen still smells new. The cold steel of the fridge reflects the sunlight merrily. Karyn didn't like this kitchen. She preferred warmer colours. Yellow, red, orange. I have filled my house with blue and grey.   
  
A new day.  
  
*****  
  
They come at noon.   
  
The doorbell rings and I know who it is, but force myself to look surprised as I open.  
  
"John Laks? I'm Gil Grissom and this is Sara Sidle. We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."  
  
The other man holds up a badge. Police and scientists. Impressive. "I'm Jim Brass. Can we come in?"   
  
I nod, opening the door wide to allow all three to pass. The two men are older, hardened. The woman, a brunette, looks determined, but her features are softer. I try a hesitating smile, she doesn't return it.   
  
"Is something wrong?"  
  
I try to put dread in my voice, and it's surprisingly easy. I do dread what's to come.   
  
"I'm sorry to inform you your wife is dead," the detective says. If he is sorry, he doesn't show it.   
  
"Dead?" I echo. It sounds so strange to hear even though I am her killer. She's dead. Karyn is dead.   
  
"I'm sorry," the detective says again. "I understand you two were separated."   
  
"Temporarily. Karyn wanted to work some thing out," I lie.   
  
"Her sister seems to think she wanted a divorce."  
  
"That's news to me," I say. It was news to me two weeks ago. Strangely, I feel my eyes water.   
  
"Where were you last night, Mr. Laks?"  
  
"At work. I didn't come home till 4 a.m. You can check the security tapes."  
  
"Mrs. Laks was killed in the alley behind your office building," Brass says.  
  
"Maybe she was coming to visit me and got mugged. She knew I was working late."  
  
"I'm sure she did. We have a warrant to search your house." The detective smiles, but not pleasantly. The paper he holds out looks genuine enough. Fast work. Perhaps our tax dollars are not so wasted.   
  
"Go ahead," I tell him. I wipe away the tears, unsure if they are real or not. "I didn't kill her. I was at work."  
  
Sidle and Grissom smiles, but more at each other than me. They slab on rubber gloves as they enter the kitchen, leaving the detective with me.   
  
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he says. He thinks I'm the killer. His eyes are dark, accusing. Perhaps they have talked to the security guards and know I was in the vicinity when the murder occured. They must have something, or he wouldn't look so sure.   
  
"I just moved in," I say quietly as Sidle opens the fridge and frowns at the lack of food. She doesn't acknowledge my comment, merely stares intently at the milk cartons.   
  
Grissom moves next to her, leaning down. His hand brushes against her side and she nearly drops the carton.  
  
"Would you mind not spilling milk all over my kitchen?"   
  
She sends me an annoyed glance.   
  
"Sorry," I apologise. "I'm just a bit rifled up."  
  
"Your milk has expired," Grissom tells me, straightening up. He looks as if that is supposed to be meaningful and his partner nods.   
  
"And…?" I prompt.   
  
"Milk was found on the victim. Expired milk."  
  
I must look genuinely surprised. At least the surprise I do feel is genuine.   
  
"Really," I croak. My palms feel sweaty and I rub them together.   
  
He looks at me. His eyes are clear, but I can't read them.   
  
"Sara, bag one of the cartons."  
  
She nods and sends me a look full of contempt. Her eyes seem strangely open for someone in her profession. She deals with death, how can she keep her eyes open?   
  
They continue to sweep my house like hawks, probably looking for the gun. I keep myself from following them, instead sinking into a chair. I feel genuine grief. Strange. I thought I would have to pretend, but I can barely keep myself from crying.   
  
They return to the living room looking slightly cheerful and carrying evidence. I don't care. They cannot nail me to this. They will check out my alibi soon enough. I thank them for coming and wish them luck finding the killer.   
  
I watch them leave from the window. Then I cry, until I gasp for air and my shirt feels wet.   
  
I loved her.  
  
*****  
  
They're in my office when I enter. Just Sidle and Grissom, she rifling through my shelves, him searching my desk.   
  
"Warrant?" I ask. Sidle flashes me a smile and holds out the paper. I don't bother looking.   
  
"I didn't kill her, Mr. Grissom."  
  
He peers at the surface of my chair and doesn't answer. Sidle notices his glance and stares at him questioningly.   
  
"New chair," he observes, more to her than to me.   
  
"That's right, new chair," I confirm.   
  
"When did you throw your old one out?"  
  
I hesitate a mere second, but he notices. He strides out of my office and looks around.   
  
"Carpet," Sidle says, joining him. "Marks that could me from smalls wheels – like you would have on office chairs."  
  
"Yes. I bought a new chair and threw an old one out. The guards will confirm that is all I did."  
  
"You wheeled in your new chair, didn't you?"  
  
I nod. He turns again, and waves at Sara. Her camera flashes over the carpet. Flash, flash, flash. Like gunshots.   
  
"We're taking the chair. You'll see the warrant covers that," he tells me. He bends down to look at the wheels. "Did you realise someone has cut the into the cover of this seat, Mr. Laks?"  
  
"No."  
  
I realise even as I say it that he already knows. Damn him, he already knows.   
  
"Very new chair" he says. I try to look as if I have no idea what he is talking about. "You haven't sat in it."   
  
"So?"  
  
He merely raises an eyebrow at my question, as if he thinks I should just break down and confess and realise nothing can save me now that he's on my case. Or perhaps I'm reading too much into things. He's not easy to read.  
  
She is. Her eyes are condemning me. She wears her heart in her eyes, this one. It surprises me he doesn't notice.   
  
Or perhaps he does.   
  
They leave with the chair, carrying it carefully as if it is made of glass. Sidle looks excited, smiling at Grissom. Karyn used to smile at me that way once.   
  
On the way home, I cry again, tears running silently down my cheeks while the cars around me honk insistently.  
  
*****  
  
I find them in the trash the following morning. They are literally rummaging through the trash, dressed brightly blue against the green container. They don't notice me, and I don't bother making my presence known.   
  
She nearly trips and falls at one point, and he catches her, but loses his balance and they both take a backwards dive into the heaps.   
  
"This was a new suit!" I hear her laugh as they struggle to their feet. He just smiles and brushes dust gently from her face. She looks startled. But even from where I stand, I can see her eyes light up.   
  
They continue their trek through the trash in silence, but I can't help but watch. Strange. A part of me hopes they will find what they're looking for. Perhaps then I could sleep at last.   
  
Finally, they finish, she looking frustrated and he thoughtful. They jump out and finally notice me. Sidle's face darkens and she takes a step towards me. Her eyes speaks of nightmares over murders like these, and I feel a stab of guilt. I never meant to give her nightmares.   
  
He halts her with a hand on her arm and whispers something to her I cannot hear. The words brush against her cheek, but her eyes stay on me. I wonder if she hates me, or I am merely a representative of what she hates.   
  
"Good morning Mr. Grissom. Ms Sidle. Find anything good?" I call to them.  
  
Grissom smiles ruefully. "You know what they say. One man's trash is another's treasure."  
  
"Happy treasure-hunting then."  
  
He inclines his head – a challenge, perhaps. A compliment on making it hard for him? Still, there is confidence in his eyes. He thinks he will get me. No, he is *sure* he will get me.   
  
I give them a brief nod and walk away, feeling their eyes burn at my back. I've never had two bloodhounds at my heels before, but even I can smell the blood on me. It sticks, even if I never touched it. It is as if I breathed in the blood and now it forever clings to me.  
  
I make it to the corner before I throw up. Nothing comes but bile. I haven't eaten since the killing, I suddenly realise. My legs give in, and I lean against the cold stone, gasping for air.  
  
God, I loved her. And I killed her. And the blood reeks.   
  
*****  
  
They come at night. She smiles as I open the door, and I know they have something. Brass is following them, lingering in the background as if he is waiting for a cue from them.  
  
"I know how you killed your wife," Grissom opens with and slides down on a chair. "The guards see you enter with a new chair, around the estimated time of Karyn's death. If you had shot her, you would have had little time to hide the gun. We searched the crime scene. No trace of the gun. And without a gun, we'd have a very weak case."  
  
I merely stare. My head is spinning and I feel cold with fear. Surely they can't have…   
  
"You called Karyn. The phone records from the pay-phone shows a call placed to her number. She showed up – what did you tell her? That you would grant her a divorce?"  
  
His eyes cut into me, clear as glass and just as sharp.  
  
"She looked for you and spotted you trying to put the chair in a container. We found some fibres from the chair on the container. Treasure." He smiles. "It lured her into the alley. You were just throwing out some trash after all. Nothing sinicster. She approached…You shot her. Two shots. You used the milk carton as a silencer. That explains the drops of expired milk on the crime scene. You hid the gun in the chair – your new chair – as you entered your office. You went through a metal detector, the chair didn't. After all, there's visible metal on it."   
  
"You complained about your old chair long enough that no one questioned it," Sidle jumps in. She leans against the side of the chair and Grissom beams up at her. "New chair went in. Where did the old chair go?"  
  
"The trash," I shoot back at them.  
  
"No." Sidle smiles. "We couldn't find it in the trash. You didn't throw out the chair because it still hid the gun. You must have known it could be connected to the murder. Were you planning on hiding it forever?"  
  
I ignore her question, staring dead ahead. "You didn't find my old chair in the trash. That proves nothing."  
  
"You're right," Grissom acknowledges. "But the chair we found in the broken photocopier proves plenty. We found your hairs and fingerprints on it, and one smoking gun."  
  
He holds up the bagged gun and my stomach turns. They stare at me, but I say nothing.   
  
There is nothing I can say.   
  
****  
  
She comes to me as I sit in my cell, leaning against the bars. I know why she is here.   
  
"Why?" she asks.   
  
"I loved her."  
  
She bites her lip. I wonder if she has known love so strong it merges with your blood and you can't let go. I wonder if she can sleep at night, if someone is there to chase away her nightmares. Karyn chased away my nightmares. Then she became mine.  
  
"You couldn't let her go?"  
  
"No." In the corner of my eye, I notice Grissom has entered.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"I loved her," I say again.   
  
"If you loved her, why didn't you let her go?"  
  
I wonder who she is really asking. Or maybe I feel so floored by the question I try to distract myself.   
  
"He didn't love her enough to let her go," Grissom says.   
  
I try to protest, to scream that I loved her so much I couldn't let her go, but the words are stuck. I can't say it. I can't…  
  
"And if she hadn't wanted him to let her go?" she asks, eyes now on her partner. He looks uncomfortable, but doesn't look away.  
  
"Happily ever after?" he suggests and holds out a hand. "We solved the crime, Sara. What could have been is not important."  
  
She looks at him as she takes his hand. "Sometimes it is," she tells him solemnly.   
  
She doesn't add that what could have been can sometimes still be if you try, but I see it in her face, and I think so does Grissom.   
  
And tears run from my eyes unhindered. I didn't think I had any tears left. I don't even know if I cry for Karyn or myself anymore. I didn't even try. I was so convinced I had lost her I didn't even try.  
  
I thought I loved her.   
  
I hum to myself after Grissom and Sidle have walked out together, the same lullaby I hummed to Karyn. I didn't really hum it to her, I know now. The lullaby is not for the dead. They sleep already. The lullaby is for the living, waiting to sleep and chase away the living nightmares.   
  
I hope I can sleep soon.  
  
FINI  
  



End file.
